


War Stories

by The Gleeful Dragon (Origami_Roses)



Category: Original Work, original work - biography
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Aftermath, Gen, Humor, Kindness to an enemy, Lingering trauma, PTSD, chicken
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-01 15:08:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17246417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Origami_Roses/pseuds/The%20Gleeful%20Dragon
Summary: Stories from various relatives and a few friends, some now dead, of life during wartime - some from the civilians' POV, some from the soldiers'. Some of these stories I was told in person, most are second-hand. As with my dad's stories in My Life According to My Scars, I am changing names unless I have express permission to use them. There is no particular attempt at timeline continuity - best to consider this a series of one-shots and two-shots than a single coherent story.





	1. A Bird By Any Other Name...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's always a loophole.

It is a truism among farmers and ranchers that once an animal is named, it becomes a pet. This is especially the case with smaller livestock - chickens, rabbits, and the like, and even more so when children do the naming. A farmer can call a rabbit Stripey or Fluffy and still put him on the table when the time comes (perhaps not easily, but...); the kids are devastated when Fluffy comes to Sunday dinner in a capacity other than "Guest".

During the (Second World) War, everyone had a Victory Garden. Even if all you had was a bit of space for a pot on a corner of the porch or a sunny windowsill, you grew a bit of something. My family was fortunate to have a bit of a yard, so in addition to a modest garden, we had a small coop with a few chickens. Us kids were told right from the beginning that the birds were not and never would be pets, and were NOT to be named. They were there to provide eggs, meat, and pest control and fertilizer for the garden.

One morning as we went out to collect the eggs, my 4 year old sister was chattering away, and said the chickens all liked their new names. I reminded her that the chickens were not allowed names, but she refused to be dissuaded, and insisted of introducing me to the newly-named chickens. Pointing to one after the other, she said "Dat one is Fry Chicken, an' dis one is Chicken Soup, an dat one is Chicken An' Dumplins, an dat one is Roast Chicken, an dat one is...." 

I was grinning so hard I thought my cheeks would pop. After we finished gathering the eggs, I told Pa about it. He promised my sister that we'd do our very best to make sure the chickens lived up to their names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is courtesy of a friend of mine. It seemed like a good opener. Not all stories of life in and around war are about the bad times, after all. ^_^


	2. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in war doesn't end when the war does.

When one of my college roommates introduced himself, he ended by saying "if you ever need to wake me up, stand over by the door and throw something at me. Do NOT come shake my shoulder." A couple of the guys kinda joked about that, but the look on his face was serious, and just a touch haunted.

It was a few weeks later that I had to wake him up. As requested, I stood by the door and threw a shoe at his head. He came up blank faced and flailing, fighting. There was nothing resembling recognition or sanity in his eyes. I probably made some sound because all of a sudden his eyes focused on me and he snapped out of wherever he'd been. I must've looked horrified because he looked away and apologized, very embarrassed, even ashamed. I didn't understand it then, but since he seemed sane again, I just asked if he was ok. He muttered something about a nightmare, still refusing to look at me.

Eventually, we found out he'd been over in Vietnam. He and his squad had been returning from a patrol, and were near a village at dusk. Both American troops and the Viet Cong had taken turns hitting the area pretty hard, and there were several empty huts because of civilians being caught in the fighting. The locals didn't welcome them with open arms, but did quietly indicate a not-too-damaged hut they could use for the night. About dawn he woke up, and saw a young local boy standing nearby holding a length of piano wire. As soon as the boy saw his eyes were open, he ran out. Figuring the boy had been sent with a message, he turned to wake his squadmates, only to find them all dead - strangled in their sleep, most likely by the boy. He was the only survivor. There was no way he could take the bodies with him, so he collected the dog tags, packed what little ammunition and food they had left, grabbed a couple extra guns and hightailed it out of there - looking over his shoulder all the while. It took him three terror-filled days and nights to get back to base. He frequently had nightmares and when suddenly awakened would come up fighting for his life, sure he was being attacked. Apparently he'd almost killed a couple guys in that mindless state, and was terrified that one day it might not be "almost". 

He'd been back in the States for several months at that point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is courtesy of my dad, about one of his room mates in college.


	3. Uncle Arnold, 1

My Uncle Arnold served in the US Air Force during WWII, and was captured in 19** after his plane was shot down. He was sent to a POW camp - NOT a concentration camp. POWs were not treated well, but not subjected to the horrors we hear about from Auschwitz and other notorious places. I do not know what the camp was called, nor where it was. The POWs could receive care packages through the Red Cross, which were actually delivered into their hands. They were often cold in the winter, frequently homesick, sometimes in pain and usually hungry. I am sure there were POW camps in which the guards were complete beasts, but this was not one. The guards were harsh, very ready to punish misbehavior, but equally ready to shrug and "not see" little things that didn't impact camp security. The POWs, of course, hated their guards.

In this particular camp, the latrine was a trench type. It was probably 4-5 feet deep and fairly long. A low wooden rail ran along the edge, and to use the latrine, you'd hang your fanny over the rail and do your business. This latrine was used by the guards inside the compound as well as the prisoners.

One cold, wet, wintry day, one of the guards somehow lost his balance while doing his business and fell into the trench. It was deep enough he couldn't get out, and full enough to be extremely disgusting. The POWs found it hilarious and laughed at the guard and his attempts to climb out. My uncle, after a minute or so, went over to the trench, got a good grip on the rail, and leaned over to offer the man a hand, hauling him out of the muck. He was ostracized, spit upon, and shunned by the other POWs for doing so.

This lasted for some time, until everyone started to notice that when Red Cross packages came, he was always one of the first to receive one (there were never enough for everyone to get their own package). Since my uncle didn't smoke, he'd pass the cigarettes from the care package to those who did - he always had, if he were lucky enough to get a package, and now he was always lucky in that regard. He shared out the other goodies, too - soap, food, socks... His generosity won a few friends back to his side. He'd always tried to help if he could, been kind to others, and they started to remember that and see The Latrine Episode in that light, as part of who he was instead of a betrayal. 

Over time, the POWs started to see that the guards were not all bad. Life in the camp was still hard, they still went cold and hungry, but there was a touch more respect here and there, and a sense that good deeds could be worth doing. In the little ways, life was better because one man was willing to get his hands dirty to help another.

Some time after The Latrine Episode, fighting shifted the front lines of the war closer to the camp, requiring them to relocate. My uncle was tagged as part of the group looking for a new location. I don't know the details of their search, only that he was considered a "safe" prisoner and allowed a small degree of freedom. My uncle was also not stupid. He knew perfectly well that after several months of camp confinement on shortish rations he was in no condition to make a mad cross-country dash across unknown territory in the middle of winter with no real resources into an unpredictable war zone with a vague hope of encountering friendly forces before enemies and possibly getting shot before they knew which side he was on. Nope. He helped find a safe place for everyone to move to.

During the move and afterward when they were building the new camp (yes, prisoners were forced to build their own prison), Uncle Arnold was often picked for the scouting and foraging teams. He helped find shelter - abandoned and often damaged barns and farm houses, as often as not - as they traveled. As a farm boy, he knew what to look for in the empty, snow-covered fields around them. The civilians had long since fled or died, so he identified the root vegetables like turnips that were still in the ground and helped harvest them as well as other edibles. There were few animals around for hunting, and supply lines weren't always reliable or secure so those vegetables were a source of food for the camp as a whole. Here again, he earned a bit more trust from the guards, and from the other POWs. 

It is worth noting and remembering that any army is made of individuals who have no influence on the policies of the higher-ups. Even in the Nazi army, there were decent people serving as soldiers. Every soldier has some small space to make decisions regarding how he will treat others, just as each prisoner and each civilian does. You see, those guards were in charge. The first one Uncle Arnold helped could have shrugged it off or considered the help his due as a "boss" in the camp. He didn't. And he didn't do just one nice-ish thing and call it even. He and the other guards all were just a touch kinder. A smidgen more willing to trust. They chose to acknowledge the good that was done and spread it - just a bit! - farther. Each of us can choose to treat others as kindly as our situation allows - whatever it is. That doesn't mean turning into a softie and letting others walk all over you, but it does mean acknowledging that others deserve consideration, and giving it.


End file.
